The Difference Between Me and You
by Mariani
Summary: Wendy wouldn't call the day she slept with Eric Cartman the biggest mistake of her life-that day wouldn't come until two years later, when she finds herself agreeing to be friends with benefits with him. That one DEFINITELY takes the cake. M for language and sexual content.
1. Where It Began

**A/N:** Um, so. Holy shit. Guess who's making a comeback to the South Park fandom today?

This little gem has been sitting on my Google Drive since like, the end of last year-something I started randomly, on a random thought, on some random day, that grew into a story that's about fifty pages in length and still growing. So...here I am again.

Bear with me: this is literally one of the most sex-filled stories I've ever written. If you're not in it for porn, best you skip the first, oh, five or six chapters or so. Like, there's plot, this is no way a PWP, but there is sex aplenty here, folks-with angst! Huzzah!

I'm quite proud of this one, so I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

When she was sixteen, Wendy had sex with Eric Cartman.

The word around school was something awful: that he bribed her into it, he conned her, that she was drunk and he wasn't as drunk and one thing lead to another. They whispered for weeks about it; a few people even said he forced her. Kyle Broflovski said that there was no way Wendy walked into that house on her own free will. But the word of mouth, from anyone that you asked, was that she did it because he had _something over her_ —and for those who knew Wendy Testaburger, it made sense. For those who also knew Eric Cartman, it made even more sense: his obsession over Wendy had been an item since the first day of ninth grade, when she banished her baggy jeans forever and underneath lay a rather excellent pair of legs.

But the truth was, it was never about what he had or didn't have over her. Two years later, Wendy has never, not once, tried to dispel the rumors, because the fact of the matter was, when she was sixteen, Cartman had come up to her and challenged her— _you're disgusting_ she'd snapped, to which he dangled the bait that he _knew_ would forever win her over:

 _Prove me wrong._

The proposition was that he could make her come first, if they ever fucked (here, he'd made sure to stress the _if_.) And Wendy was well aware it was a trap, in spite of her initial fury and embarrassment, but she didn't care. The minute he said it, she saw his desire for her in his eyes, burning so strongly that she immediately knew she would win. Because she didn't reciprocate it. Because she was a sexual creature, sure, but not in the way he was. Not in a way that she viewed sex as a competition to be won—as a _weapon_.

And he knew that, too, of course. Just like he knew her pride in that moment would hinder her from realizing that that, in and of itself, was the real trap.

So she had said yes. No strings attached, no bribery involved.

Cartman's house was almost always empty, so they met up there. Under normal circumstances, she would have never said yes, but she had been going through a rough patch with then-longtime boyfriend Stan—another thing Cartman was well aware of—and had been feeling exceptionally destructive lately. And going to Cartman's house by herself, on a weekend, was no different. It felt like walking into her own grave. Or cuffing her own hands behind her back.

It made her feel _vulnerable_ , the way silence wrapped around the entire house, and that she was alone with Eric Cartman.

He was vulnerable, too, but for different reasons—arguably worse reasons than her. He sat on his bed, watching her, aware he was about to surrender himself to her, though she saw in his face almost immediately that this wasn't about winning for him. Not like it was for her. It was about getting in her bed with him, what he'd been trying to do for two years. So right away, she'd lost a little there.

She might have been getting into bed with him, but it wouldn't be sex. It would be him masturbating using her body. It would be a one-sided connection, him trying to satisfy his desire of her that would never be satiated.

His kisses were just this side of forceful; he was messy about it, rushed and she almost didn't open her lips to him. But his tongue was demanding and she knew too much resistance would signify she thought she would lose, so she parted her lips and his tongue sent the first bolt down her body. She felt herself shiver. Dangerous territory, but she valiantly pushed through it.

Then he moved.

This startled her. She was lying down, beneath him, a position he'd put her in, and he was headed for the apex of her legs. "Cartman," she began.

He didn't respond. His hands were clumsy, fumbling. They undid her jeans so quickly that she almost couldn't react, pulled them down around her ass like a curtain dropped. The exposure was shocking.

It also sent a second surge of electricity between her legs, and she didn't like that one bit.

"No," she said. And so he stopped.

If anyone really understood what had happened between them that day, they would have understood that Cartman did not coerce, force, con, or trick her into any of it. She was just as cognizant, aware, and willing as he was.

"No," she said shakily. "You—that wasn't part of the deal, Cartman."

His eyes watched hers. "Sex was part of the deal."

He left it hanging, making her face heat. A slip in her composure.

"It's just…" She searched for words that wouldn't make her look weak, but he cut her off, enjoying the crack in her armor far too much.

"Afraid you'll lose?"

He knew that she wouldn't refuse. He knew. He was figuring it out as he went along, while she was doing the opposite. A big mistake.

At first, she was pleased when her body reacted null to his tongue. He hadn't even taken her panties off, nearly pushed them aside, his eagerness evident even with how he tried to hold himself steady. She laid still utterly convinced his attempts to unravel her would be in vain. She was hardly wet and her thighs were unmoving around his head.

He sensed this, and promptly changed tact.

She didn't know what was happening at first, until she felt him slip two fingers inside of her and how he did so with no resistance. It was then that she realized she was wet enough for him to do it—much wetter than before—and that while her mind was so stubborn in accepting that maybe his tongue felt good, her body wasn't. Her thighs had fallen more slack, and her heart was pounding a bit harder as her skin heated. In a moment of panic—that this was actually starting to feel _good_ —she nearly pushed him away, but caught herself the moment his eyes looked up at her.

Letting him continue was bad, but stopping him would have been so much worse. A sure sign that she was beginning to crack.

Unfortunately, it was too late to disguise what her body was telling him. His fingers were buried inside of her, up to three now, and she couldn't stop the jolt her hips released when she felt him stroking the sweet spot deep inside of her—as if he'd known it was there all along. By now, his tongue had slowed to long, leisurely licks over her velvety skin, because he knew just by how she was soaking around his fingers that he didn't need to pick her apart anymore. She would do it for him.

And she did.

It wouldn't have been as bad if she hadn't, just moments before her orgasm, let it into her mind that she liked it. She wouldn't have felt that deep, burning shame pulsing at her core if she hadn't given in. If she'd held out—if she'd come still thinking that he was awful, that what he was doing was horrible—maybe she could have been okay. Maybe she could have convinced herself that she'd won after all, because she couldn't help what her body did, but she could help what was in her mind. And, a few seconds before her hips lifted off the bed and she let out a small, shuddering cry, she thought to herself that _this actually felt amazing._

And maybe—maybe she did win after all. Because even after she came, he didn't stop. He kissed and licked around her swollen clit until her labored breathing lifted again into feathery moans, and he went at it again, maybe six more times, slipping her out of her panties so she was fully naked from the waist down. But it's not like she told him not to. It's not like she ever _pushed him away_. She just lay there, crying out every single time, and it was clear by the third or fourth time that neither could remember how they'd even wound up here.

After six times, or about an hour and a half, he sat up, undid his jeans, and sank himself into her while she was still coming down—and it startled her, frankly, so much that she shouted out _Wait_ , and not even because she meant it. Not because she even, God forbid, wanted him to stop. It was virtually a reflex, her verbal confusion after being rudely brought back into reality.

Cartman had hovered over her, staring down at her. He didn't pull out of her, but he didn't move, either. He was almost frozen, and they looked at one another for a long while.

"I lost," was the first thing she whispered.

He swallowed. "So?"

Her breath caught. His voice was thin and husky, and it was very obvious to her then how much he was holding himself back. She could feel his cock inside of her, twitching, and how he was trembling.

She had lost but—maybe, so had he.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked quietly, and she hated that question. She hated anything she couldn't answer. Like why she'd let it get this far when all she'd had to do earlier was push him the hell away.

Or said no entirely, to this whole ordeal.

"No," she said. "I don't know."

"Does it…" He hesitated. It was kind of rare and bizarre to see Eric Cartman second guess himself; with him hovering over her, face flushed, his cock buried to the hilt inside of her, he barely looked like the boy she'd known since preschool. "Does it feel good?"

She bit her lip. If she was honest with herself, just once, then yes. It did. She was drenched and swollen from her six orgasms, but with him filling her, she felt wonderful. Warm.

"Yes," she admitted.

At that, he smiled, genuinely pleased. Then, he began to cant his hips, rolling them with sharp, expert thrusts right along her front wall, and it went from being wonderful to sort of incredible, having her see stars after she'd been so wrung out before.

"But I lost," she gasped out. Nevertheless, she clutched his arms.

He looked down at her, and his face spoke volumes: _does it matter?_

It didn't.

And so. Six orgasms went from seven, and Wendy Testaburger lost that day.

He never let her forget it.


	2. Hear Me Out

**A/N** : Holy crap. Thank you guys for all of your positive feedback! I'm truly humbled! This story is pre-written, so I'll likely post the third chapter soon. This is just a short interlude. c:

* * *

This is how her morning starts:

"Wendy."

She flinches at the vile voice. Even puberty couldn't save Cartman from sounding insufferable sometimes.

"What?" she sighs, not bothering to turn.

"I have a prop—"

" _No._ "

"But Wendy," he coos, leaning up on the locker beside her. She firmly keeps her gaze on what's in her locker. "This one's _really_ gonna blow you away."

She cuts a glare toward him. He smiles sweetly.

"You're single, right?"

He asks it to humiliate her (what else could she expect from a snake.) He knows all about her breakup with Stan.

"Cool," he says when she doesn't answer, "so I was thinking, what if we were friends with benefits?"

At that, she actually has to scoff. "That's really fucking original."

"I know, right?"

"Fuck off. You know what the answer is."

In her ear, he says, "You didn't say that two years ago."

She smacks him, hard, on the face, but he's gotten a little tougher since they were kids and barely flinches. "Fuck. Off. Final answer."

"Come _on_ , Wendy—you think I'm saying this shit because I _want_ to?"

"No," she deadpans. "You're clearly being forced to."

He smirks.

"Two years later and you're asking me this shit now, too? Because Stan's out the picture? I mean, Jesus, it's not like I don't know what you're _doing_."

"Well no, ho, it's more like I'm horny, you're horny and just got dumped by the gaywad, school sucks, and, as we both know from experience, we work _exceptionally_ well together in the bedroom. It's not that hard to figure out."

"Not horny, and not interested."

He leers at her. His voice borders on a sensual threat. "I can read the signs when you're turned on. Remember?"

She stiffens, whirling around toward his smug-ass face. It feels like the same old song and dance (it kind of is), but he's extremely good at laying traps just as much as she is walking into them. "You are _so_ —"

Coolly, he says, "Don't say that like you have another choice."

And just the way he interrupts her—so assured of himself—infuriates her more.

"Oh yes I do: I'm not _obligated_ to let you fuck me at all, even if I made that mistake in junior year." She slams her locker. "And I won't this time, or ever."

He smiles. "Whatever you say."

"You're disgusting," she says, determined to hurt him. "I'll _die_ before I let you touch me."

"Again," he says. And she can't help it: her cheeks warm. "Just think about what I said."

"I won't," she snarls, just as the bell rings. He's still smiling as she turns around and marches to third period, face beet red.

* * *

That night, her phone vibrates.

 **+1-(719)-441-823** : So whatcha thinkin about

Unknown number. Midway through her AP Physics homework, she shoots back a confused text.

 **Wendy** : Uh who is this?

 **+1-(719)-441-823** : Don't have my number saved, ho? Shame on you.

Her stomach drops. _Of course._

 **+1-(719)-441-823** : Well, since you asked so nicely, it's Eric. Cartman. The guy you've gone to school with since like, the beginning of time

 **+1-(719)-441-823** : Kinda hurts that you didn't know my number. You only dated one of my best friends for what, eight years?

Rolling, her eyes, she almost doesn't reply until her phone buzzes again. And again. And again.

" _WHAT_ ," she screams at it as if Cartman can hear her. Three new texts.

 **Cartman** : And to clarify what I meant earlier, I was asking if you were thinking about the thing I told you to think about

 **Cartman** : Which you probably weren't

 **Cartman** : You're prolly doing your hw or snorting Adderall or doing whatever the fuck it is you straight A students do

She's midway through firing back a nasty response when he interrupts her—figures, even through text, he'd find a way.

 **Cartman** : Unless you were touching yourself

 **Cartman** : In which case I'm very sorry I missed it.

 **Wendy** : LEAVE. ME. ALONE.

 **Cartman** : Yelling at me now? Lord, I must be interrupting something very...important

Frustrated, she tosses her phone on the bed and slips her headphones back on.

It's not until after she's finished with homework that she texts him back before going to sleep.

 **Wendy** : I have been thinking about it.

 **Wendy** : And the answer is no, hell no, 100% no, absolutely not, fuck no, not in a million years, one billion times NO.

* * *

He doesn't text her back for the next few days, and she's thinking maybe she's gotten rid of him for good.

What a fucking pipe dream.

"Hey, Wendy." At lunch, Kenny McCormick plants himself on the bench next to her, as if it _hasn't_ been nearly six months since they've spoken.

"Hi," she replies cautiously.

Eighteen year old Kenny McCormick—she's not afraid to admit—is very nice to look at. He might still be poor, and a predator, and not-so-secretly dealing dope to pay for the Dodge Dart he drives to school, but his blond hair glows when the sunlight hits it and his eyes are so blue and clear that every weekend, a girl forgets all about his flaws.

Not that Wendy's that girl.

"What's up?"

"Nothin'." He examines his dirty fingernails, a portrait of forced nonchalance.

It's around this time that Wendy starts to go on high alert, because she remembers that while Kenny started to roll with a bad crowd in junior year, this did not isolate him from Eric Cartman. If anything, they got closer.

"Sooo…" His grin is sleazy when he looks at her. "I heard someone wants to hook up with Cartman?"

" _What_ ," Wendy squawks. His smile deepens.

"Hey, it's none of my business. Just wondering."

"That makes no sense, first of all, 'cause if it wasn't your business you wouldn't be asking—" She stops herself at the blank look on his face, changing tact to something that will make sense to him. "And when the _fuck_ did he say that? Why are you even here, Kenny?"

"Whoa," he says. "Like I said, just wondering, that's all. No need to freak out."

"What, did you come by 'cause you figured it your friend lied about me putting out, I'd do it for you, too?"

He screws up his face (to his credit, no one ever said he was smart.) "Oh shit, he lied?"

"Looks like," she says, then shoves him hard.

* * *

 **Wendy** : Who the fuck do you think you are?! Seriously? Telling your sleazy best friend that I came to YOU?

 **Wendy** : You better PRAY Kenny is making shit up. Or you're DEAD

 **Cartman** : It's so cute when hoes get angry

 **Cartman** : I'm smoking out behind the bleachers, if you wanna throw down. I have a free fifth, so take your time. I got all fucking day ;)

* * *

Wendy decides it's worth skipping fifth period if she can put him in his fucking place.

"Ah, I hear angry footsteps," his singsong voice says as she approaches. "My bitch approacheth."

He's as smug as ever and veiled in cigarette smoke, so she does the only thing she can think of—she snatches the lit Camel from his mouth and stomps on it. Hard.

He glances down at it, cool as a cucumber. "Temper," he chides, popping another in his mouth. "Lucky for you I got a whole pack."

"Did you tell him?" she fumes.

He sighs out a plume of smoke. "Clarify the 'him' and the 'what.'"

"Did you tell Kenny that I'm putting out for you? When it's the _other fucking way around?_ "

"Hell no—as much as I wish you would. You know how Kenny is, though. Boy's on every drug known to man." Cartman exhales. "He probably saw something on my phone and made some shit up in his broken-ass brain."

"So it's a coincidence that he chose _me_ to be the girl pining after your micoprick?"

He flinches. "Ouch. First of all, ho, not micro. Second of all, I guess so, 'cause I'm not stupid enough to spread rumors about _you_...let alone to _Kenny McCormick_."

Wendy trembles. "Just tell him to stay the fuck away from me. Same to you, while you're at it."

He eyes her like she's sprouted a second head. "You cold or something?"

She rubs her arms through her paper-thin sweater. "Whatever. I'm going back inside, anyways."

"Here." He shrugs out of his jacket. "Take this. The last thing I need is you dying of hypothermia weighing on me."

She ignores his outstretched arm. "Hypothermia is only from water, you idiot."

"Blah blah blah, technical nerd shit." He rolls his eyes. "Take the fucking jacket."

Her teeth choose the wrong moment to chatter. "P-pass."

"Jesus, Wendy, your mouth is going _blue_ and, since you won't let me warm it up with mine just yet—"

"Never," she interrupts.

"—just let go of your pride before you freeze to death. Christ."

She glares at him for a minute before, albeit very reluctantly and avoiding all eye contact, slips the jacket on over her shoulders.

And—okay. She'll confess: it's nice and warm.

He breathes out more smoke. "Better?"

She nods.

"See?" he says gently. "Not too hard to accept help once and a while."

"Aren't you cold now?" He was only wearing a henley underneath.

He shrugs. "Yeah, but it's no problem. Kenny and I are probably gonna go boost from the mall so I can just get another coat there."

She scoffs. "Shoplifting. Nice hobby."

He grins at her. "Hey, it makes me richer than any other dude in this school."

"And I'm just supposed to keep your jacket and wear it around?"

"Well, hey..." He shrugs, but the look on his face is suggestive. With a sigh, she closes her eyes.

"The answer's still no, Cartman."

"It's cool," he says, flicking his spent cigarette to the ground. "I'll find another way to thaw that icy heart of yours."

* * *

 **+1-(719)-260-8043** : hey, jus wanted to say sorry for that shit i said to you earlier

 **+1-(719)-260-8043:** cartman bout kicked my ass for it

 **Wendy** : It's fine. I went to him and he explained everything

 **Wendy** : This is Kenny, correct?

 **Kenny** : yep

 **Kenny** : told me he gave you his jacket tho? the fucks up with that, that motherfuker let me freeze my ASS OFF when we were kids then turns around and loans you his nicest jacket all cuz you started shaking a lil?

 **Kenny** : lucky i got some shit at cherry creek or i'd be fuckin DEAD by now


	3. Weak Spot

**A/N** **: Thank you guys for all of the positive feedback on this story, I'm forever grateful! This chapter's a long one, but it gets pretty raunchy pretty quickly (as I warned so long ago). Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

If Eric Cartman was right about anything (and not that she'll ever admit it), it's that Wendy is, in fact, very horny these days.

She and Stan's breakup, which happened over the summer and was messy as hell, left Wendy with nobody to turn to but herself. Which was, at first, was fine. She fared okay for such a shitty time period, shrugging all _what can you do_ -ly to her girlfriends' sympathetic pouts and high-pitched whines of "That _suuuucks_!" She didn't even really feel his absence at first. But she's only a teenage girl, and that was _months_ ago, after all.

And. She misses the hell out of him.

Horniness aside, she's like, _emotionally_ horny more than anything else. Sure, she's not get fucked as often (or at all, really) as she used to, but she also spends most of her time outside of school either studying or alone—and frankly, _that's_ what " _suuuucks_ " more than anything else. She'd held onto her pride this long, but, on Monday, after a weekend of her phone being dark and her hand being plunged down her panties every night, she knows it's a long shot, but she's as close to dying as she's ever been.

In AP Physics, after mustering up the courage, she turns her head. Bombshell.

"Hey, Stan."

He turns, surprised (with good reason) that she's spoken to him. Two and a half months in the same second period—they know who sits three seats down from them every morning. And they know damn well their dogged ignorance of each other is deliberate.

"Hey," he says uncertainly. Wendy's smile deepens.

By the end of the period, it's like they never fought, or broke up, or spent the entire summer pretending the other doesn't exist.

While it's not what she was originally going for, they leave class with plans for a study session at her house that night, and as they part ways to head to third period, she's euphoric, because how _easy_ would it be if Stan liked her again—it looks like he never really stopped—and she rode the rainbow wave senior year with the lead quarterback as her boyfriend? _Very_.

Behind her, Eric Cartman says, "Really?"

She yelps in surprise. The roll of his eyes is _audible_ , even before she turns around.

"What?"

" _Really?_ " His nose is scrunched. "I kindly offer to take you to pound town and instead you hunt down your faggy ex? Lame."

"Shut up," she says, knowing it's like shooting a squirt gun at a tank. "Just because I want _someone_ doesn't mean I want _anyone_."

"No, and the someone you want is pretty fucking clear now."

"Shut up," she says again.

"You're never gonna win, y'know. Not with _Stan_ , at least. He spent all summer like, crying about how he thinks he might be gay on Skype."

 _He did?_ "No, he didn't."

Second eye roll. "Come on. Eight years and then he suddenly ditches all like 'I just need to _fiiind_ myself'? Yeah, more like 'find myself some dick."

The bell rings then, but he's not finished. Not until the knife's plunged all the way into her flesh.

"Kinda sad that _this_ is how bad you wanna avoid me."

Scaling their four-inch height different, she gets right up in his face. "Fuck you. _Fuck you._ You don't know anything about what I want or what I'm doing. And don't you _ever_ pretend to know."

He just raises his eyebrow at her, and infuriated, she storms away.

Fuck him. Fuck him so hard.

* * *

Stan swings by around six, just like he promised.

The _plan_ , of course, is to study. But Wendy's got other ideas. Stan seems to notice, too; when he opens the door, immediately his eyes widen and drink in the sight of her scant little camisole and tight-as-hell yoga leggings.

Wendy fluffs the ends of her hair and smiles.

"Thought we were just studying," he offers.

She goes for dumb coquettish, tilting her head (and knowing he'll never buy it). "We _are_."

Smirking, he still steps inside, and her heart sings.

Fifteen minutes later, with their textbooks still strewn open, he has her pinned against her couch from where they sit on the floor, kissing her madly with one hand tangled in her hair. It happened so naturally, from one minute of getting too close to examine a sample Physics problem to turning their heads and just _melting_ into it. It was perfect. Simple and easy. It was _right_.

"Wendy," he breathes. She nods, pulling his hard, hot body against hers. Her legs spread, with him kneeling between them, and the solidness of him pressed against her quivering, needy core is enough to drive her mad.

The kissing gets intense, and holy _shit_ , she's missed this so badly. Weeks upon weeks without a boy's touch, forgetting what it means to be intimate. It's heaven. She commits the shape of his mouth, the texture and taste of his tongue, the softness of his skin, all to memory, allowing herself to fall back into the rhythm.

He slips his fingers beneath her bra strap, and she sighs: _permission granted_.

The cold air is just being to nip around the sensitive skin of her breasts when he jerks back as if burned.

"What?" she gasps against his mouth. If he didn't turn away so fast, she would grab him and maintain their rhythm. Anything to keep him from stopping and satisfying the tiny part of her brain that clings to the possibility that _Cartman's right_.

And it looks like he is.

"Wendy," Stan sighs, "l-look...I know we have history, and I _would_ , but…"

No. _No._

He's never been redder as he blurts out, "I think I might be—more into guys, y'know? It's nothing against you—and it took a long time to figure out…" He sighs. "God, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have come over. I knew something like this would happen, and I've already hurt you."

"Yeah," she deadpans, not bothering to hitch up her flaccid bra strap. "You have."

"I'm sorry. I'm gonna go."

"Fine." She doesn't watch him leave.

A lot of things hurt in that moment: the unsatisfied pulse between her legs. The pain of humiliation. The fact that _Eric Cartman was right_. Her own desperation and foolishness.

She grabs her phone, intending to call someone. Maybe Bebe, or Red. _Somebody_ she can vent to.

But there's one text.

 **Cartman** : Did he run away crying yet?

Of. _Course._

She clenches her fist so hard that she sees spots. Her nails press angrily into the soft skin of her hand.

 **Wendy** : Not crying. But yeah

 **Cartman** : Told you

 **Wendy** : I need a favor

 **Cartman** : Finally accepting my offer?

Wendy squeezes her eyes (and her legs) tightly shut. He's texted her back by the time she opens them back up.

 **Cartman** : I know it looks attractive trying to get back together with an ex and all, but it's really just a mess

 **Cartman** : Not that I'm speaking from a whole lot of experience but like. Ya know

 **Wendy** : Gee thanks

 **Cartman** : I wasn't kidding about him btw. He's queer af

"I fucking _know_ you weren't," Wendy says aloud. She madly taps away a response.

 **Wendy** : Stop talking about him. Okay?

 **Cartman** : Lmfao sure

 **Cartman** : Sooo...that favor

She calls him. He picks up after one ring, smile audible through the line.

"Yes?"

Deadpan, she forces out: "I'm naked in front of you, on my knees in only panties. I'm soaking wet, panting, and waiting for your cock. My hands are tied behind my back. What do you do?"

There's a stunned pause, before he lets out an incredulous laugh. "What the fuck? You want me to have _phone sex_ with you?"

Her face burns hotter than it ever has. "Fucking yes. Okay? Stan blue-balled the fuck out of me and I need to get off."

"Ooh, and I'm the first person you call?" he teases. "Sexy."

"Eric Cartman, if you don't start filthy-ing up this phone call in the next five seconds, I _will_ hang up on you."

He laughs again. "Yes, ma'am. Or..." His voice lowers. "Do you want me to call you ma'am?"

Her breath catches. "Yes."

"Oh shit. You like that, huh? Like that you're on your knees but you're still in control? How you're gonna tell me _exactly_ how to fuck you with your filthy little hands tied behind your back?"

"Yes," she repeats, quieter.

"Well then, ma'am. I'm standing in front of you, naked, and I gotta say, my dick is so hard it's about to go on strike from seeing you on your knees. What would you like me to do with this before I explode?"

She slips her hands into her panties. "Let me taste it."

He pauses. His voice is just this side of husky. "Not even gonna say please?"

"Fuck no. I'm the one in control here. And I want it."

"How badly?"

"So badly I can feel my juices starting to slip down my leg." She dips her fingers into her pussy to the first knuckle, taking in a sharp breath. He seems to do the same. "Oh _fuck_ , I want it. I'm so _hot_. I'm fucking shaking for it."

Another pause.

"Beg me," he whispers. " _Ma'am._ "

"You paused," she says, also in a whisper. A smirk graces her face. "Were picturing it? Me fingering myself, dripping at the thought of sucking you?"

"Yeah," he croaks.

"What if I licked the head, just a little, just to taste the precum? What if I lay back and spread myself and you watched me finger myself until I started to scream? Is that good? Or would you like me to beg with my words? Because I can."

"N-no, _fuck_. No. Okay. Put my dick in your mouth."

"I do. Slowly. So you can see my tongue as I take _all_ of you. Until you hit the back of my throat and I just _keep going_ , that's how badly I want you in my mouth." She moans softly. "With the hand I'm not using to stroke you, I start to play with my tits."

"Fuck," he whispers.

"Just pinching and teasing each nipple, but oh my _God_ , it's enough. It's _so good_ , I'm moaning around your dick and I can barely think straight, my pussy is throbbing so hard. I might come without even fucking touching myself, it's so good."

"Even if you do, I'm still gonna make you scream. Fucking _count_ on it, ma'am."

"Oh, I will. Do you like my mouth on your cock?"

" _Yes_ , ma'am."

"Do you want it inside of me? Buried completely and even then, you're still not deep enough?"

" _Fuck_ yes," he says, on a slight whimper. It makes her head swim a little, her fingers reaching up to her swollen clit. Heat pools at her hips.

"Cartman, I..." She bites her lip. "I don't know if I'll last."

"I'll make you fucking last."

"No, I—I'm about to—in real life—"

"So soon?"

"Y-yeah," she moans, laughing, "I was pretty worked up."

Lowly, he says, "I love how sensitive you are." She shivers at that. "Let me hear you, _ma'am_."

Her hips buck up, her legs tensing in a way that's telltale. "I—okay—it's...I'm—"

"Say my name," he breathes. And she does—she _screams_ it out, that's how hard she comes, her entire lower body quivering and jerking as she moans and whimpers and cries out into her phone. Cartman lets out a noise like he's in pain, desperate.

" _Holy shit._ "

Panting, she grips her phone, her pussy still clenching with the last remainders of her orgasm. Cartman's breathing gets rough, and he suddenly lets out a huge breath that seems to mean he's come, too. All she can do is listen, shaking.

"W...Wendy," he says shakily. She closes her eyes. "That—"

"I gotta go," she whispers.

There's just the slightest of pauses. "Alright. Okay."

Weakly, she ends the call.

The next day, she doesn't even hesitate as she marches up to him behind the bleachers.

"You wanna fuck?" she says, cheeks red from the cold and embarrassment. "Fine. Let's fuck."

After a moment, Cartman puts out his cigarette and smiles.

 _Gotcha_.

* * *

Wendy is not a virgin.

Back in sophomore year, on a very painful, very awkward April afternoon, she gave her virginity to Stan in his bed while his parents were out of town. It hurt more than it should have—primarily because he was a virgin, too, and just about as nervous as she was. Not to mention the blood stain wouldn't wash out and they had to buy new sheets. Not a fairytale moment.

After that, though, they had sex often, in every place imaginable, usually quickly and without shedding much clothing. For example, she'd had plenty of sex on counters with her ass freezing cold on the tile, but very seldom—in fact, she only recalls a few choice times—fully naked in his bed. Once he started football, sex became a kind of warm-up, composed of feverish kissing, a mad scramble of hands and hitched clothing, moans and choked gasps, and him groaning as he came inside of her. She didn't mind the speed. Even when she didn't come (which was often), just having someone close was heavenly.

The first time she has sex with Cartman makes the awkwardness of losing her virginity look like paradise: it's in the baseball storage shed when they should be in sixth period, in the freezing cold. It's even faster than sex with Stan was.

Except it is not sex with Stan.

When she and Stan fucked, she was rarely on top. This time, though, it's Eric who lays on his back as he hoists her ass up, fumbling with his zipper (she picked wisely in choosing a skirt this morning). His breathing is harsh and a little frayed, and she makes the mistake of comparing it to Stan's breath the first time they had sex.

It isn't until she sinks down onto him that she understands he's not a virgin.

His hips make expert, sharp, short little bucking motions up toward hers as they establish a rhythm, bringing his cock so it makes a forward rolling motion, right against her front wall—and her G spot. She whines in surprise when she feels his cock hit her against her most sensitive spot, and before long she's riding him excitedly, feeling pressure build at a rate it never has before. Her clit's on fire, and when she reaches to rub it, it's all of four seconds before she explodes, crying out as her orgasm clenches down on his cock and her body slackens.

" _Fuck_ ," he whispers, in the same way he did last night, coming a few short thrusts after. She has to hold her hands out to steady herself on the ground, and they both sit there for a minute, breathing hard.

Eventually, he croaks, "Let's do this tomorrow."

"After school," she pants. "I don't wanna miss anymore class."

He smirks. "Whatever you say."

* * *

Before Wendy knows it, three weeks have come and gone.

Her mother stops probing around after a few days, wondering where she is and why didn't she call and what's she been up to after school and Wendy, is there something you're not telling me—like any self-respecting parent of a teenage girl, she learned that Wendy's vague as hell "Just chilling" is as good of an answer as she's going to get.

And Wendy: she honestly hadn't expected it to become a big deal—a big enough deal that her _parents asked about it_. She's literally told no one about it, not even Bebe, and frankly never plans to. She's known Eric Cartman since she was four years old. One could even argue—horrifyingly—that she knows him very well. She knows what sleeping with him entails, because there's one thing she knows about Eric Cartman, it's that he's all but incapable of displaying human emotions. When he came to her with his little "proposition" all that time ago, she agreed expecting quickies and frantic, clothes-on sex—fifteen minute sessions, tops. And that is not what she gets.

At first, it is. The past three weeks are filled with a strange sort of euphoria, starting with after school sessions where they're alone, blindingly hot in the icy cold while the distant, echoing shouts of the baseball coach fill the background. Cartman takes his mother's car to school just so he can drive Wendy home, and she often finds herself in the passenger seat with the crux between her thighs still thrillingly wet from both his arousal and her own. The rides are silent except for the radio, while Wendy leans her head against the window and tries not to fall asleep.

Then it happens during the daylight hours.

After he fires off six texts to her during her third period, each increasingly more insistent until an all-caps "FUCK IT, MEET ME THE PLACE" arrives on her phone. She takes a twenty-five-minute bathroom break (one mumbled "on my period" and she's off the hook instantaneously) and spends the short rest of class coming down from her orgasm and avoiding the teacher's intermittent, disapproving glances.

It happens four more times, and it's pretty thrilling trying to get laid while the freshman Phys Ed class runs three laps past the shed. And, admittedly, Wendy doesn't really mind—that they could get caught at any moment, that this might not be a dirty little secret. If anything, it makes it more exciting, because Cartman's pretty goddamn thorough when it comes to making her, well... _come_. Best "quickies" ever, and she decides after two weeks of it that hey, maybe having sex with Eric Cartman isn't _all that bad_. He's still a giant dick and full of himself and thinks the stupidest shit is funny—but she doesn't hate herself completely.

Imagine her shock when he tries to kiss her.

Granted, sex without kissing isn't easy (as porn deceives people into thinking.) After school is fair game, but during school hours, Cartman's usually on top, just for the sake of time—plus she has a tendency to scream when she's on top, which works well in big empty houses, but like nails on a chalkboard when fourteen year olds are only a flimsy wooden wall away—and often, he'll be breathing hard and she'll have her arms around him and his face will just sort of be _there_ , right next to or in front of hers. She never takes her clothes off when they fuck, either, so during those moments he'll just let his head drop down onto her chest, or shoulder, and admittedly it's pretty un-sexy having a faceful of wool when you're trying to get your freak on. And it absolutely startles her when, during one of these times, he moves toward her face and doesn't stop, and she lets out a terrified little squeak like he's stepped on her foot.

"What?" he breathes, still panting. His hips stop thrusting.

"Sorry," she whispers. A pair of kids are breathlessly chatting as they jog past the door.

He frowns. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it's just—" She doesn't know how to explain it other than _You tried to kiss me and that freaks me out._ "Sorry."

Still frowning, it takes him a while to get them both worked up again (she just doesn't bother going back to class), but eventually they both finish. They started doing doubles not long ago, and he's there after school, smoking, which means she has to face the awkward as fuck conversation about earlier. It's not like him, whether eight or eighteen, to let things go easily.

He opens with: "I've fucked that sweet ass in every position I can imagine."

She frowns, perplexed. "Okay?"

Long exhale. "Wendy. It's kinda weird that I've been inside you like, forty times but I have no idea what your tits look like."

She can't think of an answer he'll buy.

"Just saying."

"This is just physical." And she realizes, as she says it, that that's why there's no foreplay. Why they're always fully-clothed.

"And me groping you is, what, fucking _spiritual_?" He stubs his Camel. "Or, shit, I don't know—is _kissing_ a mental exercise now?"

She fights the blood in her cheeks. "No. It just feels...too—"

His annoyance is clipped, like he's tired of her shit. "Am I gonna fall in love with you the instant I've had a titty in my mouth?"

"N-no—"

"Wendy," he sighs. "We're allowed to kiss. Promise, cross my heart, on my grandfather's grave, on my own goddamn _life_ , it won't make us boyfriend and girlfriend, or even friends."

She throws a glance at the bleachers. As if someone's watching. "I don't know."

"Give it a trial run before you diss it, at least."

"Again, Cartman, I just don't know. Christ."

The irritation in his voice augments. "You can ride my dick for hours but you won't let me put my mouth on yours for six fucking seconds? The hell are your priorities at, ho?"

"You know what?" she snaps. "Do it. I know you're not gonna let up until you get your way—" The look she sends him is pointed. "—Believe me, I've had experience with it. So just fucking do it. Get it out of the way."

He doesn't respond. Not even a smartass remark.

He just leans in and kisses her.

Wendy closes her eyes. As much as she wants to hate this, it would still just be too awkward for her to stare at him. And the first moment of it, even with her eyes closed, it still works; that aching resistance in the back of her head convinces her that his mouth is hell on earth, the nastiest, most rank thing she's ever tasted, that this kiss will have her traumatized and chewing Lifesavers for months.

But then.

As it turns out, he's a hell of a kisser.

It goes on more than "six fucking seconds"—maybe a full minute, which ends with her arms around his neck and his hands at her waist, their bodies met in the middle in a heated seam where both of them quiver and burn even in the arctic winter cold. His mouth is slow on hers, his tongue even slower, and he's kissing her like he wants to devour her and like she's made of glass, all at the same time—and it's making her lose her fucking mind, because she's not sure which one she wants more. Maybe both. She can't even be _sure_ ; all she knows is, the tantalizing movement of his lips is making her blood pound and sizzle harder than it ever has.

He interrupts: "Holy _shit_."

She tries to breathe in response. Neither of them move. The air does not grow colder for either.

"Okay," she says finally, still breathless. "Okay. So I guess you can kiss me."

"Cool," he croaks, and dives for her mouth again.

* * *

 **Bebe** : Chica. We NEED to hang out. Haven't see you in foevah! Hmu when you can, i'm free after school all week :)

"Oh," Wendy sighs aloud, opening up a new text. "Shit."

"What is it?" Cartman asks from the floor next to her.

"Bebe. She texted me like, yesterday." _Hey, so sorry I didn't get back to you sooner! I'd love to go get a late lunch today or something_. Wendy hits SEND. "Oh well."

He folds his arms behind his head as she sits up, and his eyes are very much watching her as hers are watching his when she looks over at him.

Stretched out on the floor, she can see: he's by no means skinny, but he's either grown into his body or lost weight from their elementary school years, still husky but with definite, actual _muscle_ lying beneath (and she's felt it hands-on, many times.) And his eyes, she's noticed, are actually kind of nice. Amber. Like a sunset.

As she pulls on her jacket, Cartman sits up behind her and startles her as he pulls her in for a kiss. His mouth is warm and sweet in the blistering cold, the velvety texture of his tongue making her moan as she sinks against him.

Then she feels his hand, slipping beneath her shirt.

"Cartman," she murmurs.

"I wanna see these," he says softly, looking at her. His hand remains, and his fingers are tantalizingly cold on her stomach.

"I know," she says, "but…"

He kisses her again, this time nipping her lip the way he _knows_ she likes. It makes her shudder.

"You saw them before," she whispers.

"I know—and I liked them a hell of a lot—but it was only in a bra."

She squeezes her eyes shut, because she knew it was only a matter of time before he went from pushing kissing her to pushing seeing her body.

They've sort of danced around it after he mentioned it, too caught up in the long makeout sessions and deep, dizzyingly long kisses they share for much of their time together. The more she kisses him, the more she likes it, and the wetter she feels it getting her until she can just work him into her without ever breaking from his lips. For her, kissing is an important part of the foreplay.

But.

"I wanna see your body," he says softly, and she'd be lying if she didn't admit she can hear the plea in his voice.

"It's just…" She fumbles for an excuse. "It's so cold in here."

"Oh," he breathes out—clearly relieved. Relieved that it's not _him_.

She laughs. "Yeah. I'd rather do it somewhere warmer, y'know?"

"No, I getcha."

"Yeah."

"How about my place?"

"Oh," she says, which makes him frown, because she doesn't really say it so much as she breathes it out. The way someone voices disappointment.

The last time she was at his house, he made her lose, seven glorious times in a row. And while it occurs to Wendy now that him making her come is _kind of the point_ , the whole experience of being in his house with him—alone—has been tainted for her.

At the confused, disappointed look on his face, she back-peddles: "I mean. It's not that I would be against it."

"Okay. You busy after this?"

Shocked, she utters a small laugh. "Wait. You wanna go...today?"

He smirks. "Holy shit, you're dense for an Honors student."

"Shut up," she huffs, smacking his arm. He just rolls his eyes.

"Yes, today, ho. My mom literally doesn't give a shit, so you could stay the night, too, if you wanted."

"Oh," she says again, differently than before. "I kind of have…"

She flubs a bit. Is she really about to tell Eric Cartman that she can't because she has homework? Or a curfew? Or, sadly, parents that _do_ somewhat give a shit?

"Two hours," she resolves. "Then I'm homeward bound."

"Three," he counters.

"Two."

"Two and a half?" She shakes her head, and he touches his chin, as if thinking. "Hard bargain. How about fourteen?"

"Cartman," she snips. He smiles so all of his teeth show. "Two hours."

"I'll take what I can get," he says, thumbing her lower lip so he can kiss her again.

* * *

Cartman's house is one of the many cookiecutter two-stories built back in the eighties, about three blocks away from her own.

The car in the driveway wasn't there the last time (the last time she was here, two years ago), but she knows it to be his mother's hybrid Honda Civic, the newer, midnight blue version of the red one he drives.

He pulls in beside it. "Weird," Wendy hears him mutter.

"What?"

"I didn't know she'd be home."

If Wendy didn't know better, she would say he sounds disappointed.

"We could just do this another time," she offers. "If you don't want her to know or anything."

He seems to consider it, but only for a moment before he shrugs. "Eh—nah. She probably won't care at all." He leans across her to open her door, pausing to kiss her quickly.

"I can open my own door," she huffs good-naturedly.

"Nope," he rhapsodizes. "What little she did raise me, Mom raised me to be a gentleman. And don't lay into me with any of that feminist bullshit, either."

She scoffs. "You, a gentleman?"

"Wendy." His smile is pure sugar, a finger trailing sensually up her bare thigh. "I'm not saying I'll throw you out of the car, but—"

She rolls her eyes, nonetheless sliding out.

Cartman's house has a habit of smelling unnaturally clean, almost sterile, like a hospital or a just-cleaned hotel room. From what Wendy understands, Liane has been a serial house cleaner since Cartman started high school; she had the same observation two years ago, too, upon first walking through the door.

"Hi, sweetie," his mother's voice carries from the kitchen.

Cartman glances at Wendy, before guiding her toward the open door. They'd have to pass the kitchen to reach the stairs, anyways.

"Mom," he says, pronouncing it in that peculiar accent of his. His mother looks up from where she stands at the counter, drinking coffee and reading a magazine. "This is my friend, Wendy."

Liane nods toward Wendy, who's head is still ringing from " _friend_." That Cartman could ever refer to her so...politely.

"Hello, darling," Liane says, and the smile she offers Wendy is more tired than friendly. She's exceptionally thin, even for a woman her age, and the relentless, feminine optimism that once occupied her personality is long dried up. With a bony, pale hand, she lifts a small plate. "Care for a cookie?"

"Oh, I'm alright, thank you."

Liane nods, dunking one into her cup of coffee. She goes back to her magazine, and flips a page.

Wendy is vaguely aware of Cartman's hand, which slips into hers as he guides her to the stairs. She's uncertain if these affectionate displays are for his mother's benefit or her own—and she's not deigned to ask.

His room isn't much different than it was that day two years ago, but it looks like a different world now. His bed is less a rectangular prison and more of a place to sit, and she actually notices the other pieces of furniture as she perches on the edge: his desk and impressive desktop setup, his dresser, the chest at the bed's foot, the hamper in the corner by the closet. She's much less defensive and armed, having a moment to look the room over.

It's extremely tidy, and smells refreshingly clean, like dryer sheets, or shampoo.

"My mom makes the bed." Unlike last time, he walks past where she's sitting and pulls his sweatshirt off over his head. His shirt hitches, exposing a strip of his back before he tugs it down.

She clears her throat. "Do you not want me to sit here?"

"Oh, hell no, do whatever you want." He turns back to her. "I just don't want you to think I'm some loser who actually...fucking makes his own bed or something."

She snorts. "Odd definition of loser."

He smiles—his real smile, not the nasty one that he musters after screwing someone over. It lights up his face.

She shudders a little at her observation. It's so strange being in an intimate setting with him; he seems like the last person to share any intimacy with someone—almost as if he's out of place, or she is.

He sits on the bed beside her, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight. It's obvious by how needily he kisses her that he's holding himself back: he wants to see her body, but he doesn't want to be pushy. He wants to warm her up to it first.

And even his politeness is short-lived; two minutes into kissing and his hands are fumbling at the front of her shirt for the buttons, trying to sloppily pick them apart while keeping his lips firmly on hers. He's experienced, obviously, but only a boy. It makes her smile, then laugh, which has him pulling back.

"What?"

"I'll do it," she whispers, smirking. He raises an eyebrow at her, face dangerously teasing.

"Gonna give me a show?"

She scoffs. "Hardly." His eyes scratch and burn her as she reaches for the front of her blouse—letting her know that, whatever she does, it's going to be a striptease for him no matter what.

Her fingers fumble a little trying to get the buttons undone, and, admittedly, it feels a little like a curtain falling open as she slips her shirt off past her shoulders—in just her bra, she feels a pang of anxiety jolt through her, but she still determinedly undoes the clasp while his eyes watches the cups pucker and lift off of her breasts.

"Holy shit," he breathes when her bra is gone, on a heap on the floor. Wendy feels her cheeks warm, and she is definitely not the same girl she was two years ago as she feels a pang of shame at her breasts—Stan hardly saw them as is, and she's no Bebe, or even average, coming up to bat with a meager B-cup.

"I don't know," she says quietly, "it's—"

"No," he says, eyes looking into hers. "I like it. A lot."

She makes a face at him. "Well, of course."

"Jesus Christ—ego much?" he breathes, laughingly meeting her for another kiss. She slings her arms around his neck, thrilled by how the cotton of his shirt is soft and cool on her sensitive nipples, stiff with excitement even in his warm room.

He parts from her for a moment to reach behind his head and yank his shirt off. She gazes down at his body, surprised: he's still chubby, but much more defined than she would have expected, especially around his torso, shoulders, and biceps, which look cut with unexpected power. The Colorado winters are brutally cold, and she's never seen him in a tank top, and rare still in a T-shirt. Seeing what lies beneath is almost exciting to witness.

When she looks back into his eyes, his face is rife with subtle but definite fear.

"What?" she breathes.

"I don't know," he replies, then forces a quiet laugh. "Just hoping you didn't…"

Lord. She never thought she'd see the day when Eric Cartman was _bashful_.

"Don't worry," she says, even more shocked with herself that she tries to comfort him. "I like it, too."

He exhales and pulls her in for another kiss, their chests and stomachs gloriously touching. His skin is burning compared to the rest of the room, and he whispers out "Holy shit" yet again against her lips as their bodies move against each other.

Curious, and feeling rather bold, Wendy drops a hand to his lap and her hand curls around his pulsing length, rock-hard even beneath two layers of clothes. He wheezes out a gasp, clearly shocked, and she bites her lip.

"What the fuck?" he whispers, appearing thrilled. "Are you _trying_ to get me to lose control?"

This surprises her. Her, making _him_ lose control?

"No," she breathes. "But, hey, if you wanna…"

"Holy fuck. I just might. Driving me crazy over here."

"Not yet." She holds his gaze, slowly uncurling her hand from him. "Do it inside of me, okay?"

His eyes widen.

Without being prompted now, she starts undoing her jeans, energized by her unexpected and pretty powerful burst of desire to be naked. Before, there was a familiar language between them: (eventually) start kissing, grind on each other, fuck. But this is whole new territory. It makes her feel odd, exhilarated, and horny as hell, all at once. He lies back, presumably to watch, and again she shocks the pair of them when she straddles him and gets her zipper down.

When he looks at her, his eyes are questioning now, but she can't answer. All she knows is, she wants both of their clothes off. Now.

His hands come to rest on her thighs, gathering the denim, which he swiftly pulls down to expose the lacy tops of her panties—the sight of which makes him groan. She sits back so she can shimmy her pants down her legs until, at last, her hard work is rewarded with her jeans on the floor, and her body naked except for her thong.

Cartman had gotten up while she took her jeans off, working his own belt and pants off. But his eyes don't leave her, and she admires the evidence of his arousal through his boxers as he stands over the bed and drinks her in.

"That," he says quietly, "is fucking _awesome_."

She laughs. "What?"

"Oh God, I don't know—a hot girl is lying basically naked on my bed. Like, it's just pretty fucking great, Wendy. Don't know how else to describe it."

"Glad you like me," she says.

"I do," he replies, softly. He crawls onto the bed abruptly, lining himself over her with a knee between her legs. She whimpers when she feels him come to rest against her panties, over the increasingly wet spot at the crux of her thighs.

"I like you a lot," he whispers, and she moans as they kiss again. A single, excitingly thin layer of clothing separates them now.

He's trying to be gentle, trying to kiss her the way he always has, but it's as evident to her as it is to him that he's starting to lose composure as he brings his hips down onto hers, and she feels his cock through his underwear.

There's something almost erotic about how he's holding himself back—something sensual about his control. She surprises herself when she realizes how much she likes it.

After a short three minutes of kissing, he parts from her with a small gasp and works a wet, trembling line down her body, from the hollow of her throat, past her breasts—here, he spends quite a bit of time, and the shocked, overjoyed moans she utters border on cries—along her quivering stomach, and down between her equally shaky thighs. The whole thing would be painfully familiar, if not for the blazing path of kisses and licks he left along her skin—something he hadn't done here before. Something he's never done, ever.

She'll admit: she wouldn't have minded that sooner.

She's already well-acquainted with the talent of his mouth, both from the amazing way he just played with her breasts and her last experience in this room (and that's not something she wants to think about.) But she nevertheless sucks in a sharp breath when she feels the fabric of her panties move to the side, and the tip of his finger brushing along her aching clit as a result.

She looks down at the scene, startlingly arousing, his head between her thighs and his hand inches from the most sensitive part of her, holding her panties out of the way. Their eyes lock.

Then he lowers his head.

Wendy throws back her head with a cry, no regard for who can hear, and she immediately lifts her hips up to his face, legs slipping around his shoulders. He slowly licks, sucks, and nips her velvety flesh and she feels him tug her panties off, and she's completely naked on Eric Cartman's bed. And it's amazing.

Her moan is low and throaty as he slips one finger into her, then two, practically gliding past her folds and into her syrupy wetness. She can feel his hand shaking, if minutely, a small sign that he's just as turned on as she is.

His fingers curl inside of her, which she definitely isn't expecting—that he's experienced enough to know to do this—and she lets out a small, sweet cry when they find their goal. He hasn't even been at it five minutes and she already feels her thighs starting to quake, his fingers stroking that sweet spot inside of her and his tongue sending lightning bolts of pleasure throughout her.

A third finger. She almost doesn't notice, she's so soaked.

"Holy fuck," he breathes. His breath tingles on her swollen flesh.

"I'm gonna cum," she whimpers.

He chuckles, lapping at her clit with the slowest, longest drag of his tongue. She digs her fingers into his hair.

"And here I was thinking that call was just an isolated incident."

"Fuck you," she whispers.

"You're about to."

"Yes," she breathes, bucking her hips suddenly. She's dreadfully, almost achingly close. "Gonna ride the shit of you so you can feel just how fucking drenched you've made me. I might drip all over the sheets."

He moans, breathless, and her back and hips arch off the bed beautifully as she cums hard enough to see stars.

She feels him slip out from underneath her, her spent legs back on the bed, and she's dazed and so very content as she catches sight of him taking his boxers off. His dick looks even harder than before, a bead of precum at the slit. The sight pleases her immensely.

He kneels between her legs, but she sits up, grabbing onto his arms. He looks at her questioningly.

Not taking her eyes off of him, she bends down and licks the precum off of his tip.

Eric utters a soft, shocked sounds. She feels his cock twitch against her tongue.

"Oh my God. Wendy—"

She takes him down, all at once, to the back of her throat.

The words die rather beautifully in his throat as he falls somewhat slack, letting out stuttering gasps. His hips brokenly rut against her face.

She doesn't bother changing her position, lying so she's on her stomach and sucking him off with deep, long bobs of her head. She keeps her tongue along the underside of his dick as she goes down, and slowly raises it as she comes up, running it along the head with every stroke. The result is him moaning, maybe even as loud as she had been, which re-excites the wetness between her legs where she's already soaking wet.

"Wendy," he chokes out, " _please_ —"

"Please?" she murmurs against his tip, licking away the evidence of his arousal. His breath rushes out unevenly.

"I need to be inside of you like, right fucking now."

She giggles, but doesn't stop, deep-throating him even faster now. She hollows out as her cheeks and takes him as deep as she can, fluttering her throat around his tip.

"Oh my _God_ ," he cries, thrusting in time with the motion of her head. "I'm gonna fucking cum if you don't stop."

"Oooh," she breathes, and mischievously meets his eye. " _So soon?_ "

" _Ma'am_ ," he grits out, "I would _appreciate_ if you would stop giving me the best head of my goddamn life so I can destroy your pussy. _Thank_ you."

"No."

Abruptly, he grabs her, to which she squeals in delight as he throws her down and climbs on top of her. She's still laughing, even as he lines himself up with her entrance, and he sends a look down at her with one eyebrow raised.

"Something funny?"

"Yes—you." She crooks her hips so some of her wetness trails along his shaft.

He squeezes his eyes shut, hissing. "Ohhh, fuck _you_."

"Please," she whispers. That makes him smile again.

It also makes him push into her with one fluid thrust.

She gasps at the magnificent stretch of him inside of her. He's _hot_ as he fills her, hot and full, and she throws her back against the pillow with a moan.

"I thought I was gonna be on top," she says, whimpering.

"Oh, fuck yeah—you wanna?"

Biting her lip, she nods.

He rolls over so she lies on top of him, making his cock slide into her even deeper, and they both groan at that. She sits up to fully straddle him, not even wasting a second to start riding him like her life depends on it. The bed is shaking obviously and violently, smacking the wall, but she just doesn't care, can't even _bring_ herself to care.

Cartman is watching her with hot, hungry eyes.

He can't hold it for long, though, his head falling back. Beneath her, to her great delight, she feels his hips buck up in rhythm with hers, the rolling motion quickening her insides again. It makes her tremble, already spent from her first orgasm and sweating from riding him so hard. But she's too far gone to feel tired or want to rest, her entire body and being focused on this.

"Are you close?" he asks, breathless.

" _Yes_ ," she cries, practically crying it out helplessly.

"G-good. Me, too." He palms her clit, still sensitive from his tongue, but her body still bows as lightning shoots to her core.

They both last another five minutes before each comes down in a series of short, breathless gasps and moans, their skin sweaty and slick as they meet each other in the middle. Wendy lies down on top of him after it's done, panting, thinking that she can't possibly take anymore of something so intense.

They fuck three more times after that.

And Wendy stays more than two hours.


	4. Love-Hate (But Mostly Hate)

Liane is gone by the time they come downstairs.

Wendy has an awful, creeping—and utterly paranoid—notion that they scared her off, until Cartman heads into the kitchen.

"Ah," he says.

A piece of paper is all she's left in her absence. Not that Wendy can't see what it says, but it's short, a couple of lines scrawled in a rush. Careless.

There's something devastatingly disappointed in his face that disappears, so quick she swears it was never there. "Eh." He lets the note float back to the counter. "Not surprising."

Wendy knits her brow ever-so-slightly. And here she was, hearing from her mother that Liane Cartman had finally turned it around and decided to be a parent. Evidently not.

"Guess that means we'll have to whip something up—either that or go out."

"Cartman," she says mildly, glancing at her phone. Two hours turned into four. "I really have to get going."

"Aw, but that's boring." He's completely dismissive, not even glancing her way as he checks the cabinets. "Yeah. Definitely gonna have to go out."

"Okay." She edges toward the kitchen door. "Have fun."

"Or order in."

She clears her throat. "I'll see you."

"Wendy."

She closes her eyes, sighing. "Cartman. I told you, I have stuff to do. And I'm already late as hell."

He grins. "So? Be even later."

"For _what_? Hanging out with you?"

"Yeah?" He gives her a look. "I'm kind of fucking amazing."

"Oh my _God_ ," she mutters, rolling her eyes.

"Wendy," he whines. "Come on. My mom's gonna be out of the house until like, tomorrow. That means you could stay the night."

"But I'm _busy_." She stresses the last word. "What part of that don't you understand?"

"Doing what?" His eyes shine knowingly. "Homework?"

She reddens. "So what if I am?"

"Skip it. Be bad for once in your fucking life. It's _fun_."

"I feel like what I did with you was pretty goddamn bad. Like, to be fair."

He crinkles his nose. "Really? Because, from where I was sitting, it was pretty fucking _good_."

She sighs.

"Well—more like where I was lying, really, because I was on top of you then I was _under_ you, and holy shit, that was something else…"

"Shut up," she clips through her own traitorous smile. "I'm—"

"Tell you what." He leans coolly against the counter. "You go do your numbers and shit like a good little Honor Roll student then come back when you're done. Kenny's coming over, but if he's still conscious by the time you get here, I can kick him out."

"Cartman," she huffs, crossing her arms. Her breasts lift inside of her tank top, to which he doesn't bother to hide his blatant staring. "Don't do that for me."

"Why? Not like he'd give a shit." His mouth ticks slyly at the corner. "And while every chick in our grade might be, it's not _him_ I'm interested in fucking the shit out of."

She releases a dramatic, loud groan—fuel to the fire for him.

"I'd have to sneak out." Immediately she hates herself for even saying so. Like, why is she even considering it in the first place?

"Then do."

She laughs, more out of shock than anything. " _Cartman_ —"

He smiles broadly. "You know you wanna."

"I really don't. Christ. Why does it matter, anyways?"

"Duh." He rolls his pretty eyes. "I like you."

"Yeah," she scoffs. "Like being _inside_ of me, sure."

Cartman gives her a hard look. "Is it _so_ hard to believe that maybe I tolerate you as a person?"

"Yes." Since when did he tolerate _anyone_? Except maybe Kenny, but they'd had that bro-ish, ride-or-die kinda deal going on since _birth_.

"Okay." He nods sagely. "You're right. You're pretty fucking insufferable. I totally only put up with you for your puss."

"Oh, fuck you—"

He widens his eyes at her. " _Well you could if you'd STAY OVER._ "

" _I think I've had enough for one day_ ," Wendy bellows. She's rewarded with his prettiest grin—and him finally relenting on his pursuit.

" _Fine._ I'll take your lame ass home." He crosses the kitchen, snatching his keys off the hook. "But mark my words, Wendy Testaburger—someday, I _will_ find a way to make you stay over."

An unimpressed brow spikes on her face. "I'm sure, Cartman."

* * *

While Wendy uses the bathroom, Cartman sits out in the Civic, smoking.

That is, until some hooded dickhead slams his hands down onto the driver's side door.

"The _fuck_ —"

"Yo," Kenny says, leaning into through the rolled-down window.

" _Jesus_ ," Cartman mutters. "Scared the hell out of me."

"I know." Kenny takes the cigarette from Cartman's hand and draws in a deep, generous drag. "We still on tonight, or do you just like sitting in your car?"

"Yeah, we're still on." Kenny raises the cigarette again, and Cartman snatches it from the grinning asshole's hands. "Did I fucking invite you to take that?"

"No." His eyes, sorta half-fixed on Cartman's face, are mad bloodshot. His feet are also bare, and not rebelliously—he probably just _straight up_ forgot shoes. Douche is _still_ blasted from that bowl he smoked after school. "But do you ever?"

Cartman rolls his eyes, right as the door opens and Wendy, in those tight fucking jeans and tank top, steps out.

She blinks in surprise, spotting Kenny, right as his eyes catch and hold onto her.

Four second silence. Then, intelligently: " _Whoa._ "

"I gotta take her home, so just chill here while I—"

"Dude," Kenny interrupts, tremblingly re-clutching the door frame. "Fucking _whoa_." Cartman shoots him a sharp look.

"Hi, Kenny," Wendy calls uncertainly. Kenny smiles so that every tooth shows.

"Hiya."

"Ignore this dick," Cartman says, giving the spent cigarette a flick down to the pavement. "He's apparently never seen a girl before."

"Dude," Kenny says again, quietly. "Were you like...straight hitting that before I showed up?"

"No," Cartman stresses, rolling his eyes, "we were fucking playing Scrabble."

"Strip-Scrabble?"

" _No_ , Kenneth."

"Bruh…" Kenny trails off, glancing at Wendy again when she gets in on the passenger side. He presses all six feet and two inches of himself into the side of the car, too-short shirt riding up around his flat stomach. "I am _so_ sorry if I interrupted anything."

Apparently at the end of his rope, Cartman spanks the horn, which sends Kenny flying off of the car. But Wendy's smiling knowingly.

"You didn't."

Kenny grins. "Nice." Undeterred, he's leaned back into the Civic.

"Kenny," Cartman says faux-tightly, "please get your fucking ghetto-ass germs off of my vehicle. Before you give it AIDS."

"Bro, I'm 'bout to get these ghetto germs all over your girlfriend here if she keeps bending over like that," Kenny mutters. Wendy, stooped over to rummage in her purse, smirks.

"Not my girlfriend, not your place to spread your shit. Now sit tight while I take her home."

"Wait, so like…" Kenny gestures in the air with a gloved hand. "Is it true that Cartman has a small dick?"

" _DUDE_ —"

"Nope," she chirps, popping back up. "Not true at all."

"Oh." Kenny pauses. His attractive face clouds with thought—then something naughty. "Oh _ho_."

"Okay." Cartman throws the car in reverse, but he's smiling. "I fucking hate both of—"

"I mean," Wendy continues, virtually musing aloud, "you really think I'd be the type of girl to settle for something like that? Gotta keep the cat fed, you know?"

Kenny sucks in a sharp breath, stunned.

Then he starts to laugh hysterically.

"Back in ten, you fucking _prick_ ," Cartman yells, peeling out onto the street.

* * *

 **Kenny** : "not my girlfriend"? i hear that right?

 **Wendy** : Yep! Just fuck buddies.

 **Kenny** : so u like...fuck him and wat? thats it?

 **Wendy** : Yes, Kenny, that's kinda how that works.

 **Kenny** : ...man where the FUCK are all the horny chicks when I need one?!

* * *

On Saturday, around three, Wendy finally finds enough free time to meet up with Bebe at Stark's Pond.

She isn't expecting it, but melts with an overwhelming bolt of affection at the sight of her lifelong friend, sitting on a log with her legs elegantly crossed. The reunion is a mesh of squealing, hugs, and animated chatter as the pair heads toward town—the kind of display that's so feminine, Wendy could have sworn she put it behind her years ago.

She didn't realize how much she missed Bebe, or having girlfriends in general.

"How have you _been_?" Bebe asks, with her same level of girly, bubbly charm that she's had since they were single digits. "Feels like it's been _years_."

"Good," Wendy replies. "Actually—great. Like, _really_ fucking great. This is probably the best I've been in a long, long time."

"Whoa." Bebe smiles slowly. "Do I sense another boyfriend in the mix?"

Wendy rolls her eyes playfully, because leave it to Bebe Stevens, girl who lost her virginity at fourteen and has been hooked on boys since elementary school, to fall back on something sexual.

"What if it isn't? What if I'm in just in a really good mood today?"

"Nope. Because the Wendy Testaburger I know doesn't just get into _really good moods_ for no reason." Bebe's eyes twinkle. "So. Who is it?"

Wendy sighs. _Oh God._ Two minutes in—and not a word about Bebe, or her latest squeeze, not a word on anything at _all_ —and it's already come up.

"It", of course, being what's had Wendy, breathless, naked, and moaning, on Cartman's bed these last couple of days. In fact, convincing him _not_ to chain her to his bed after she announced, post-coitus, that she'd be sacrificing their fourth day banging to see Bebe instead almost escalated into an all-out war. Once they'd popped _that_ cherry, he was hooked, it seemed. Every day, without fail, ended with him indirectly, then _very_ directly, trying to convince her to stick around for another round. Which he didn't seem interested in relenting on any time soon.

Not that she didn't feel the same, to an extent; say what you will about Eric Cartman—and there is a _lot_ to say to say—but he's damn good with his hands. And mouth. And tongue. And every part of him, really, which was as disarming as it was hot for her, at first, knowing that he's never had a girlfriend. She ruled out one in secret, too (why would Cartman, a certified ego maniac, _hide_ something like that?).

"Look," Wendy says at last, taking a chance. "He's not even my _boyfriend_ , okay? We just—"

"What?" Bebe shifts excitedly. "You just _what_ , huh? Fool around?"

Wendy sighs again. She is, by no means, a shy girl, but she suddenly feels pressured. Nervous, almost.

"Omigod. Have you guys...done it?"

"Christ, Bebe," Wendy says, mouth trembling with a smile, "you're supposed to be the expert here."

Bebe giggles. In her tight black yoga pants and airy white tank top, nothing is left to the imagination. "Okay," she says, "so you realize now that you have to give me a name?"

"Mmm…" Wendy winds a strand of dark hair around her finger. "...nah." Brushing it out this morning was an uphill battle, after what Cartman did to it yesterday. Snares and tangles galore.

"Yes. You do."

She lets the strand drop back down to the rest of her mane, resting on her shoulder. "Or what?"

"Tell me," Bebe persists, whining. She clutches Wendy's hands. "Wends. Come _on_ , baby. Whoever he is, he must be good. I haven't seen you smile like that in _years_."

"What does it _matter_ anyways?"

"Is he somebody we know?"

"Bebe." Wendy gives her a look. "Come on. We know _everybody_ at school."

"Omigod, Wendy, you'd better fucking tell me or I'm gonna _lose it_." At her friend's hesitation, Bebe draws an X across her breast. "I won't judge. Promise."

God, like hell she won't (to give Bebe credit, though, why on Earth would she suspect it to be Cartman?). Wendy rolls her eyes. "Ohh yes, you will."

"Is it Stan?"

" _No_ ," Wendy says immediately, inwardly cringing. What with Bebe's know-how on literally _everybody_ , apparently the news of his current sexuality hasn't hit the streets yet.

"Kyle? Oh, and even if it is, lie to me, please. Because I hate to share."

" _WHAT_ ," Wendy utters in a high, thin voice. The smile she's given in return is nothing short of pleased. "Again, huh?"

Bebe flips her hair. "Long story. He came over to help me with Calc BC and well, the next thing I knew my shirt was off and his tongue was—"

" _Bebe!_ " Wendy cries, affronted. " _Do not_ tell me about your sexcapades, _please_."

Bebe smiles coolly. "I'll take that as him _not_ being your mysterious fuck buddy, then."

"No. Fucking hell, Bebe. I would've told you if he was."

"Fair enough." She deliberates. "Okay, most obvious choice: Kenny?"

"Like he'd ever actually _commit_ ," Wendy says with a snort.

"Aww, that's too bad. I've had him," Bebe says casually (and as though Wendy didn't already hear about it in a drunk phone call one night). "He's _good_."

Wendy doesn't doubt that. "Give me your next best guess."

Bebe taps her dimpled chin, mock-thinking. "Craig?"

Wendy fights a smile. "Nope."

"Fuck. Clyde?" At the answering head shake, Bebe balls her fists. "Oh my God. _Token?_ "

"Noooope." Wendy smirks. "Give it up, Bebe. You're never gonna get it."

Bebe huffs. "I will personally go through _every_ boy in our _grade_ if I have to. Maybe even some of the juniors. So _don't_ test me."

"We're gonna be here all day, then."

"So be it. And fuck it if I'm not having fun anyways." Bebe bumps Wendy's shoulder. "Missed you, baby girl."

Wendy flushes pleasantly at the camaraderie. "Missed you, too."

They pass by the Tweaks' coffeeshop; Tweek, hunched over the espresso bar as he meticulously pours a cappuccino, glances up and twitchingly waves. They return it.

After another moment of walking, Bebe says cautiously, "It's not Tweek. Is it?"

"No." Wendy laughs.

Bebe's face, already shadowed with a vague disgust, contorts further. "Is it...Butters?"

 _Is she kidding?_ "Are you _kidding_?"

"God. _Yes_ , I'm kidding, Wendy." Now that Bebe's sorted through the seemingly fuckable candidates, she seems to have moved down to the less eligible. "Jimmy?"

"Nope."

"One of the Goth kids?"

Biting her lip, Wendy shakes her head.

" _Jason_?"

"Nooope."

"Oh my God," Bebe mutters. "You're not exactly making this easy on me, Wends. So either you're lying, orrr you've switched teams, but something tells me you haven't."

"There are more than just _those_ boys at school, you know."

" _Yeah_ , but—" Bebe stops. There's this brief moment, where her face goes through a series of increasingly hilarious acrobatics as it becomes apparent that she's beginning to, currently figuring, and _finally_ , fully figured it out. And Wendy can't help her own feeling of satisfaction.

Because Bebe...after all that, now she just has this _look_.

"What?" Without meaning to, Wendy giggles, a vat of nerve and pride all at once. "Why'd you go all quiet?"

Flatly, Bebe says, "No. Way."

"No way what, Bebe? Why, I have _no idea_ what you're thinking."

Louder: " _No. Way._ "

"I'm surprised at you, honestly. Considering my history, he was like, the most _obvious_ besides Stan." Wendy chews her lower lip, before remembering the rare coat of lip gloss she applied. "Hell, maybe even _more_ obvious than Stan."

" _Eric Theodore Cartman._ " She says it like a curse.

"Yes, ma'am."

Bebe sucks in a breath. Her wide, kohl-lined eyes search Wendy's face carefully, tenderly, like she's about to tell Wendy her dog just died. Or she has six months to live.

Eloquently, Bebe says, " _Ew._ "

"Wasn't expecting anything less."

"Wends." Bebe grimaces. "That's seriously _gross_ —assuming you're being serious, too, and this isn't you just screwing with me. 'Cause that's not cool."

"Nope," Wendy chirps. She's practically euphoric. It feels _good_ for somebody to know. "It's true. And he _is_ good."

"Wendy!" Bebe shrieks, covering her ears. But she's smiling, too. " _Stop!_ I don't wanna _know._ "

"But Bebe, you were so _interested_ a minute ago," Wendy oozes, clutching her longtime friend's arm.

"That was before I knew who it was." Bebe tosses her strawberry blonde curls. The motion exposes the smooth underside of her arm, where a small tattoo for her sign, Leo, sits. "I thought he was done with you after you had that one-night stand in junior year."

More like a contest. But whatever. "I guess not," Wendy rhapsodizes.

"'I guess not'," Bebe repeats cheekily. " _God_ , listen to you. So fucking casual about it. How did this even _happen_?"

"He came up to me one day just, like...asking."

"And you, what? Just bent the hell over?"

" _No_ ," Wendy laughs. "I kinda...had a thing for Stan for a little while again." At Bebe's _here we go again_ look, Wendy adds quickly, "And I _got over it_. We're definitely not getting back together. And I figured it couldn't hurt if I said yes. Y'know?"

"Oh yes it could." Bebe scrunches her small nose. "It's _Eric Cartman_ , Wendy. It's amazing he hasn't just gone on a shooting rampage yet."

Wendy snorts. "He can shoot up the school all he wants, as long as he keeps me coming like a train."

" _OMIGOD_ ," Bebe squeaks, and Wendy bursts out laughing. Bebe smacks her, trying her hardest to look mad. "Wendy, that's fucking _gross_!"

"You asked!"

"Omigod—I _cannot_ handle you right now, girl. As repulsive as I find Cartman, whatever he's doing has you in a _tizzy_."

"He's not that bad, actually," Wendy says, knowing she'll get nowhere trying to convince Bebe. "I mean—he still is, as a person, but like...I. Okay." Her brow crumples. "Not sure where I was going with that."

Bebe examines her friend carefully. "You do realize he asked you because he's probably trying to get you to like, accidentally develop Stockholm Syndrome or something—right?"

"Oh, I know he is."

" _Well_ ," Bebe says, on the tail end of a sigh, "at least that explains Kyle now."

Uh-oh. "What about him?"

"Well," she repeats breezily, tossing those bouncy curls again, "seeing how we're officially back on, we've been texting again." Wendy nods, as if in understanding ( _Again? Meaning they_ stopped _at one point?_ ). "He told me that you missed a council meeting or something and it kinda freaked him out. Which I found really cute and funny, to be honest, that he cared _that much_ , but yeah."

"I mean...it's the first one I've missed. Like, ever. Since elementary school."

Bebe's glossy lips pull back into a smile. "And now I know why."

"Christ," Wendy mutters. "You better not tell him."

"Girl, please. _I_ barely want to know it, so _why_ would I share it?" Bebe wrinkles her nose, like she smells something funny. "I'm not Kenny McCormick—I don't _like_ spreading shit."

With a giggle, Wendy swats Bebe's shoulder. "But...okay, I don't _get it_." Bebe's frowning now. "Old Wendy wouldn't have let Eric Cartman come near her, let alone _fuck_ her. And yet…?"

"Well," Wendy says, "maybe New Wendy's smart enough to recognize free sex where she can get it."

"From Eric Cartman," Bebe deadpans.

"Yes, for the thousandth time. From Eric Cartman." And it doesn't taste so nasty in her mouth after all. Wendy feels elated.

Bebe shakes her head with slow, long shakes. "I think New Wendy is totally crazy."

"Yeah, four orgasms a day will do that to you."

"Okay," Bebe says calmly, "okay. Alright. Cool. I'm just gonna go walk into traffic now."

Wendy bursts out laughing.

* * *

Before she knows it, the bell after seventh period is ringing on Friday.

Coming back to school on Tuesday was rough. Quite literally—Cartman was like a wild animal Monday afternoon. Attacked her on her way out of class and damn near destroyed her when they got back to his house. His mother was (surprise, surprise) gone for the night, so he didn't bother making it upstairs: he fucked her on the couch first, fast and hard from the back, then dragged her up to his room and took her for another six rounds. It wasn't even the quantity of it that got her, in the end, but just what he did to her: after that quickie on the couch, he seemed keen on torturing her in the most wonderful manner possible, his head between her legs until she swore she'd lose her voice. Wendy's honestly surprised she survived in one piece. When she finally, _finally_ , got home that night—which was another war in and of itself, resulting in the last fuck that had left her screaming for more when she had wanted to leave not a moment ago—her body was like a map of him. Bites and scratches and bruises that he'd left all over her. He knew the no go zones, so it wasn't like she'd be in turtlenecks anytime soon, but Wendy still can't believe it. She'd never seen him so...desperate. So _needy_.

It really should scare her, but it didn't. And it still doesn't. After that last bell, a part of her is screaming as she packs up her books to make a run for the street before he finds her, but that's not why Wendy's so eager to get out. The real reason is much simpler.

And that is that she's _exhausted_ —

Someone bumps into her as she barrels out of her English classroom.

Wendy resists the urge to roll her eyes. She's been true to her word about focusing on school and herself more, so Monday was the last time they saw each other. So she really shouldn't be surprised he's here. Maybe it's even a little flattering.

Before she can turn around and sass him for it, however, she gets a look at the mystery road block's face. And, of all the people it could be: it's Stan.

Wendy surprises herself with her own hostility: "What."

He sucks in a breath—

"Okay, _wow_ ," she blurts. "That was so _bitchy_ , I'm sorry."

Stan smiles, but it's thin. A smile of fleeting relief. "Sorry for running into you. I figured I try to find you here. See if we could talk for a minute."

She sighs. She's somehow both surprised and completely unsurprised all at once. "About?"

Her lack of exuberance seems to deflate him a little, but what does he _expect_? Nearly a month of avoiding each other so hard it hurt and _now_ he wants to talk?

"Come on, Wends," he says. "About what happened at your house."

Again, she sighs. "What's there to say?"

"Wendy...I'm _really_ sorry." She tries to look away, but he takes her chin in his hands. "Look at me. I know you wanted to get back together. I knew it from like, the minute I started talking to you in Physics. And I _want_ to give that to you, Wendy. I want to be that for you again. But I can't."

She feels dizzy and untethered. As if, at any minute, she'll float away. "Then why'd you come over at all? If you knew what I wanted?"

"I thought maybe I could." Gradually, his face has taken on an undercurrent of guilt. "I don't know, Wendy. It was so fucked up. I feel like I really used you."

She smiles at his sensitivity (that that would ever change). "Don't even worry about it." Her voice is thin and light, like a petal caught on a current.

Her nonchalance only seems to frighten Stan more. "It was _wrong_ , Wendy. You have every right to be angry."

But oddly, she isn't. Somehow, if anything, this exchange has made her feel like a great weight has been lifted. If she knew she was allowed, she could almost kiss him for it.

"I'm fine, Stan," she promises. His blue eyes still search hers, though.

"You sure?"

"Absolutely." Abruptly, she lets out an airy laugh. "God—can we just be friends? I'm tired of ignoring you. Dating or not, you're amazing, Stan. I wanna have somebody like you in my life."

He looks flushed from her praise. "Yeah, of course. I'd love to be your friend, Wendy."

"And...about the house thing. I'm sorry. That was really weird, I know." Inwardly, she cringes at the memory; her own desperation, from picking out a slutty outfit to walking him into every possible close-proximity situation. Good thing she scratched _that_ itch, because it was fraying her fucking _sanity_. "I'd been feeling kind of lonely after we broke up so, if anything, I feel like I used _you_."

"Really, don't apologize, Wendy." A soft smile, all the while, has been spilling across his face. "Call it mutual and leave it at that. Okay?"

She laughs. "Fair." Her chest fills with unexpected warmth. "This is such a relief. I really missed you." She's admitting it, she realizes, as much to him as she is to herself. It almost startles her to do so.

At her confession, Stan's smile broadens. "I missed you, too. Pretending you didn't exist was getting annoying."

"Let's agree to _never_ do that again."

"Deal." His phone must vibrate, because he glances at it before slipping it back into his pocket. "Practice got cancelled so if you don't have any plans after school, I'd love to go downtown and catch up with you. Maybe over coffee at the Tweaks'."

"Oh, I'd love to, but I actually am busy. But sometime next week, for sure!" However, her mind immediately flashes to the series of increasingly feverish texts ( _sexts_ , really) Cartman fired off unexpectedly last night. They'd left her whispering nastily into the receiver, her neglected Philosophy homework left open on her desk and her hand thoroughly trussed up in her panties, while Cartman's voice crescendoed in a dirty, seductive dance in her ear. It had been out of nowhere, really—in the midst of a perfectly normal texting conversation, he'd started ranting about how good her ass had looked when she'd walked past him during lunch (not that she'd ever admit that her donning of her nicest jeans had been deliberate, in hopes of running into him). But that didn't mean it was necessarily unwelcome. And based on his level of desperation, her next three, even four, after-school afternoons are booked.

" _Aaaactually_ ," she draws out, halting him mid-sentence, "I'm pretty much full up until next Saturday." She hears her own hiccup—invisible to his ears, but full of innuendo to hers—on _full up_. Cartman would get a kick out of that.

If Stan's offended, the furthest he goes to show it is with a good-natured eye roll. "I see one thing hasn't changed, Ms. Student Council President."

"Oh no, you'd be proud of me. It has _nothing_ to do with Council _or_ school at all."

He regards her with faux-shrewdness. "Wendy, if there's one thing about you that hasn't changed as long as I've known you, it's your love for all things school. So I'm having a hard time believing that."

Wendy purses her lips at him. The most logical thing for her to say would be to answer his unspoken question: _so what is it?_ And on the one hand, she's already told Bebe, entrusting a pretty fucking (literally) intimate secret in the hands of the biggest gossip at Park County High. But on the other hand, Wendy didn't date Bebe on and off for close to ten years, nor did they fuck on a regular basis from the middle of sophomore all the way to the end of junior year. So, like...it wasn't like Wendy was crossing any lines—or, at least, not on her end (she hasn't exactly told Cartman about Bebe yet). But telling Stan would be completely new territory. It feels out of bounds. Off-limits. And not to mention disrespectful as all hell; the fact that you're now fucking one of his best friends isn't really something that you share with your ex-boyfriend. Even if you _have_ buried the hatchet.

Stan's waiting expectantly, so Wendy is forced to lamely piece something together: "I've gotten kind of popular over the last couple of weeks. So it's all social, and I'd kind of hate to back out. Y'know?"

Not the truth, but not necessarily a lie (getting laid was totally _social_ , right?). His nod seems to be of understanding.

"I gotcha. And that's fine. We can always—"

"Wendy."

With a start, the pair of them turn toward the voice. _That_ voice. Her heart pounds at the sound of it—because, after all, the last time she heard it, it was whispering naughtily on the other line of a call.

Now that he's been noticed, Cartman advances slowly, meandering toward them coolly from the end of the hall. However, Wendy's immediately on the defensive; his walk, at first glance, looks like it belongs to him, but she can tell it's deliberately slow and drawn out. It's the walk of royalty. Of somebody being watched, who knows they're being watched, who's making the most of it. It's part of a show.

And if there's anybody she doesn't trust marks of ingenuity with, it's Eric Cartman.

"Hey, dude," Stan says, once Cartman's in proximity. His tone is rife with oblivious camaraderie, which Cartman eagerly shoots down by blatantly and rudely ignoring it altogether—in fact, he ignores Stan as a whole, cozying up beside Wendy like the spot was reserved for him. A blanket of awkward silence descends over them. In hopes of dispelling it, Wendy clears her throat.

"Hi."

"Hi," Eric coos back, face an unreadable mask. Which can't be good. Wendy searches for a motive, but he's not making it easy to find. "I've been looking for you."

"That so?" she manages.

He nods. "You ready to go?"

Stan's eyes widen. No mistaking with whom Wendy will be sharing her little _social_ thing now.

"Yeah, just give me a second," Wendy forces out, longing to slap that smug, plump face as Cartman gives Stan a smile as sweet as sugar. If this is some kind of pissing contest, or if that's what he's hoping to turn into it, she refuses to enable it.

"You guys hanging out today?" Stan asks. He's addressing her, but at last Cartman regards Stan out of the corner of his eye, the way you'd eye a bug, or a scab you were about to flick off.

"That's one way of putting it."

Wendy's certain, from the neck up, she goes red. Stan has a look like he's bitten into something sour, while Cartman has a look of nothing at all—not even victory.

"I'll text you," Wendy offers quickly. "We'll work something out. Okay?"

"Oh, are _you_ guys hanging out?" Cartman asks. Cruelly, he stresses each word. "I hope I'm not _interrupting_."

Wendy shoots him a contemptuous look. He's not even looking at her; across from him, Stan's become flustered.

"Dude, what the hell's your _problem_?"

"I don't have one," Cartman says flatly. "Do you?"

"I'll see you later, Stan," Wendy yelps in one breath, spinning on her heel. If she has to endure one more second of this, she'll flip. Or hit somebody. And by somebody, she means Cartman. Because _what the fuck_.

"Bye, Stanley," she hears that infuriating voice chime behind her, followed by footsteps. She wore her tightest pair of yoga pants today—with full intention of having him peel them from her freshly shaved legs—so she knows she's not doing herself any favors by walking in front of him, but it's not nearly as bad as walking _beside_ him. Not when her head is swimming with rage like this.

"Wendy," he sings out in that obnoxious accent of his. She quickens her step and, by the sounds of things, so does he. "Aww, come on. You're gonna run away from me?"

"I'm _walking_ , aren't I?" she spits over her shoulder. The quick flash of his face she gets says he's not sorry in the slightest. And enjoying this childish little game.

"I'd say speed walking is more like it. Or maybe lightly jogging." He sounds overjoyed. "Either way, you're not getting away."

"You're _disgusting_."

"Oh, _Wendy_ , you really need new insults. You've already used disgusting. Maybe try abhorrent. Or irritating. Come on, use that Honor Roll vocabulary, ho."

She's fast approaching the doors to the school, and fully intends to blast through them like a tank, but he scares the shit out of her as he comes up viper-quick on her left and blasts through them for her, holding one open. Wendy can't skid to a stop fast enough.

They hold fast, staring at each other, her fiery, dark gaze bolted to his hooded, honey-colored one. A relentless sort of tension persists in the thick, crackling air.

"Madame," he intones with a sharklike smile.

Defiantly, she stays put.

"Oh dear. I fucked up, didn't I?" He lets out a sigh, big and overdramatic. In that moment, Wendy could really fucking throttle him. "Let's hear it. What did I do? I want to at least _try_ to salvage my chances at getting laid today."

Icily, she says, "Move."

"Step through the door," he counters immediately, "then I move."

She slits her eyes, staying put. Cartman sighs again. "I wonder what the rest of the student body would think if they saw their beloved President Testaburger acting like a bratty little _girl_. I mean Jesus, Wendy, first the running away, and now the folding your arms and planting yourself bit? What's next, the silent treatment?"

Her full intention was to ignore him. No more fuel to the fire. But that last remark gets her to say, "I wonder what they would think if they saw Eric Cartman trying to get into a dick-measuring contest with the star quarterback. You'd lose, by the way, by a longshot. Speaking as somebody who's seen and dealt with both."

He actually laughs at that, so deeply and thoroughly that the hall behind them resonates with it. "My God, you're _savage_. If I hadn't seen Stan's dick with my own eyes, I might actually be hurt."

The genuine note of pride in his voice warms her blood, but she instantly ices the heat. The last thing she wants right now is to be _happy_ with him in any way.

"And, to clarify, ho, it wasn't a dick-measuring contest. I guess there's no way of making you understand how good it feels to show off the fact that you're screwing your way more popular friend's crazy hot ex-girlfriend."

"Stan _knows_ we've fucked," she snarls. " _Remember?_ The whole school knows about it to some extent."

"Ah ah," he chides sweetly, "that was junior year. Old news, by my account—though it does sort of hold a candle next to our current playtime, wouldn't you say?" Hand still bracing the door, he leans in closer, husking in her ear, "We may have been sixteen, but man, it was _mind-numbing_. I guess it makes sense, after all—we're just _good_ together. Personally, that fumbling little escapade kept me going for two solid years after. All those moans and screams you made, the way you practically rode my mouth and tore my hair out when you came, how you'd ruined my sheets after with how wet you were...oh yeah. Got me off thinking about it for two years after. You could say I'm practically _spoiled_ now. I got a stash of spank bank material for _life_ at this point."

Wendy feels that heat annoyingly seep back into her blood, as much as she tries to abate it. Interestingly, though, it doesn't cool the flame of her temper; if anything, it strokes it. It makes her wants to scratch and bite and claw him later. Probably exactly what he wants, too.

"That's beside the point," she says softly.

He tilts his head, looking sidelong. "Look."

Defeated, she does. Before the enormous, circular, crowded driveway in front of the campus lies the equally crowded bus stop, herded with freshmen and sophomores (and a few unlucky juniors). A few of them are gazing curiously back their way, which is what finally enables her to understand what he means:

An audience.

Huskily, Cartman says, "I could kiss you right now and it'd be over for you, y'know. Wendy Testaburger fooling around with the likes of Eric Cartman? You'd be ruined. I could ruin you _so_ easily."

A shiver travels through her heated body at the dark promise in his voice. She knows he's right. And she knows that she, on-edge from her head to her toes, would be powerless to stop it once he started it.

"I could pull away," she says weakly. "I could...act like I didn't—"

"What? Didn't _want it_ , as badly as I did?" He flashes her a pretty smile. "Well that'd be a lie, now wouldn't it?"

"As if I'm above telling those."

"Oh, I know you're not. But I know that you're like me, in a lot more ways than you're willing to admit." He teasingly fingers a dark, silky strand of her hair. "Instant gratification. Difficulty stopping yourself from getting what you want when you want it."

"Is that right?" Damnit. She means to grit it through clenched teeth, but it comes out in a whisper. A breathless, airy query.

Cartman tucks the wayward hair behind her ear. "I think you know the answer to that." His smile then is as sweet as candy. Like a promise kept. "You look good today, by the way. Really good. I can't wait to destroy you later."

"Jesus, Cartman," she whispers. "What's gotten into you?"

Those pretty caramel eyes blink at her.

"You're just so...seductive. Overt. It's so sudden. Is it that we haven't seen each other for a few days?"

He tilts his head so a silken lock of brown hair drops across his forehead. "Is that what I'm doing? Seducing you?"

"You tell me." For as long as they've been standing here, she hasn't stepped through the doorway, nor has he let the door fall shut. The minute she does, she gets the sense that she's lost. It always comes down to that, it seems: a competition.

"You're teasing me," she persists. "You're...God, I don't _know_. Making it hard to think."

"Maybe I just like unraveling you," he confesses hoarsely. "Picking apart your layers. You ever consider that?"

She blinks. There's some particularly raw in his face at that moment. Something that, either way, is disarming as hell.

"Were you jealous of Stan?"

He snorts. "Hardly. I don't exactly have a reason to be, do I?" His eyes flash suddenly, as if he's just remembering what position they're in. "Am I gonna have to hold this door forever or are you gonna come through so we can smash?"

The casual arrogance in his voice makes her grind her jaw. The way he makes her sound so _easy_. As if she's _his_.

"Why did you insist on holding the door for me?"

He flashes his teeth. "The goodness of my heart, of course."

"Hardly," she bites out.

"Don't read into it, ho," he bites back. "I opened a door for you, nothing fucking more. Whatever your feminist little brain is conjuring up, it's _not_ true."

Her rage, stewing steadily for a while now, finally boils over. "Go home. Get out of my fucking face. I don't wanna see you today."

His smile is something akin to a snarl. As if he'll rip her throat out. "I _love_ this. I've really disarmed you, haven't I?"

Yes. " _No._ You're just a selfish, bratty, entitled _pig_. God, if you weren't so good in the sack, I'd—"

"Throw me on the street like the trash I am. I get it. But instead, you keep me, right there for your beck and call." Every word plays harder on her nerves. It's like he knows exactly where to hit her. "You want to quit me so badly, huh? But why? Because you can't stand that I'm _right_?"

Wendy draws in a deep breath. Holds it, counts to five, lets it out angrily: "Go home, Cartman."

"You don't want me to."

"Unless you want me to hate fuck you into the next _dimension_ , you _will_ get out of my way."

He lows under his breath. "Oh my. There's that bitchy student council president I know."

"Cartman." She refuses to rip her eyes away from his. Not that that looks like it's gonna be a problem, what with the way he's like a mountain before her. "Please move."

"' _Please?_ '" he repeats softly. "Hm. That's not like you at all."

"We're not on today. Okay?" She's not sure why she doesn't just _turn around and walk away_. Some wonky, optimistic part of her brain is hoping maybe she can still reason with him, apparently. "Tomorrow."

He licks his lips, eyes landing on hers. "You wore them again." At the furrow of her brow, he continues: "Those fucking pants. You know what they do to me."

She goes hot in the face. "So?"

"You wanted me to see them. To see you." A smile curls the right edge of his mouth. "Fucking had to leave Poli Sci today to beat off in the bathroom, so congrats: _it worked_."

Despite herself, she squeaks, " _You did?_ "

He raises an annoyed brow. "Uh, yeah? What, is it a _surprise_ to you still that you get me hotter than shit, Wendy?"

Not exactly. But she honestly doesn't know what the hell to say to that. She wants, frankly, to be disgusted. To call him a pig again and really mean it. But she can't. _She can't._

Because she's _flattered_.

Before Wendy has time to react to her own horrifying realization, though, Cartman does something even more horrifying. Something that they've, really, been dancing around this whole time.

He kisses her.

Kissing him in broad daylight, out in the open, is a raw feeling. On instinct, she sinks into it, and—shit, even when she realizes exactly what's happening, his tongue licks along her own, velvet in her mouth, and she loses her ability to think. Cartman pulls her to him as he moves, and she knows without even looking that he's shut the door behind them. That she's kissing him, and kissing him _eagerly_ , right there in front of the school. But fuck it all. It's the sort of thing that she knows she'll regret later, but that it just feels so _good_ right now that she can't bring herself to care about what's coming after.

The whole amazing debacle only lasts a few seconds, before she violently thrashes away. His grip is incredibly strong—from his damn near obsessive devotion to powerlifting, as she's discovered after spending so much time at his house after school—but she's persistent, twisting her head away and sucking in air with a wild gasp. Which isn't to say that she doesn't want it. She does, but not _here_. Not on display for the rest of the world to see.

Eventually, he complies, letting her go and leaving her mouth swollen and bruised. As she stands there, fists clenched at her side, she swears she'll never be able to get the taste of smoke off her tongue.

"My house," he croaks. It takes Wendy a moment to come back down to earth, to hear him over the ringing in her ears, but when she does, he's staring at her with a hunger so raw and intense that it terrifies her. Like he'd fuck her right her against the side of the building if it got to that point.

But that's not the terrifying part: it's the fact that she sees all of this, knows what he wants, and she _wouldn't mind_. She wouldn't mind any of it. He could do whatever he wanted to her right now and she'd fucking let him.

She doesn't give herself a chance to think about it. Or look to see their audience.

"Fuck yes," she whispers.

* * *

Wendy considers herself to be pretty vanilla. When you date Stan Marsh for as long as she did, it doesn't get much kinkier than half-clothed quickies on kitchen counters.

Needless to say, that afternoon changes the game a little.

Once they manage to stagger through the door, Cartman doesn't even try to do her on the couch. He drags her upstairs and as he checks for his mother's presence, Wendy is no help, kissing his neck and rubbing herself on his cock, already hard as a rock through his jeans. It has an amazing result, however, causing him to carry her the rest of the way to his room and all but throw her on the bed. And that's where the real fun began.

Everything is the same, and not the same at all. There's a frantic, desperate energy between them as they tear through one another's clothes, sucking and biting every inch of exposed skin. Cartman doesn't bother with no goes this time, marking any place he can reach, and Wendy moans beautifully, digging her nails into his back and leaving a dazzling array of scratch marks. The first round, there's no head, no lingering at her breasts: he buries himself inside of her and fucks her so hard the headboard could honestly break through the wall. All standard procedure, and an amazing way to scratch the itch he incited within her back at school.

But then. Round three rolls around.

It's their final fuck, and perhaps the most incredible. Wendy knows it's going to be different when he goes to his dresser and retrieves a bottle of lube. Not that she cares. Her mind hasn't cleared or righted itself at all since school, and she's still in that do-whatever-you-want mindset.

Which changes, albeit only a little, when he gets her splayed across his legs, and smacks her firmly on the ass.

" _Ah!_ " Wendy cries, mostly in surprise. Before she can ask just what the hell he thinks he's doing, however, he does it again. And again, this time lower, near her swollen pussy.

She does the unthinkable: she presses her face into the mattress and _moans_.

"Is that okay?" he whispers, rubbing her ass before he gives it another whack. Wendy keens, whining, arching into it. It's honestly humiliating, but she's never been so aroused in her life. And she doesn't even know _why_.

" _Yes_ ," she chokes out.

He groans softly to himself, giving her another two spanks. In between, his other hand has slipped between her legs, teasing her bruised entrance until she's pushing back into his fingers. When he crowns her, she cries out, and he buries two fingers to the hilt right as he spanks her again.

"Have you ever been spanked before, Wendy?" he asks quietly, sounding to be devastatingly aroused while he fingers and toys with her. His thumb has found her clit, still sore from his earlier administrations, but her body responds anyways. She's starting to think it always will, when it comes to him.

"N-no," she whispers, color slamming into her face. Or, at least, most than there already was before.

"Mm." His hand comes down again as he continues to tease her, stroking her clit and G-spot in amazing harmony. Wendy gasps, horrified by how needy he's rendered her as she pushes herself impossibly further into his touch.

"My _God_ , I can feel you getting tight again," he breathes, slipping a finger between her cheeks until he finds her asshole. Wendy flinches instinctually, before she manages to level her breathing. His fingers inside and around her pussy feel so fucking good that she easily zeroes in on that, even when she feels the coldness of the lube.

"Wish I hadn't come inside you as much as I did," he says quietly, nearly to himself. "I could feel just how soaked you are right now." Wendy cries out again, partially from pain, as his finger breaches her, but she forces herself to relax. Forces her muscles to loosen. "That's it. God, you're so good for me. So fucking good, Wendy."

" _Cartman_ ," she whimpers.

"It's okay," he says softly, withdrawing his finger suddenly and spanking her once more. Wendy almost comes when she feels how close his hand is to her pussy this time. Fuck, she just might anyways.

This time, when he pushes past the tight ring of muscle, he works two fingers inside of her, pumping with a lot less resistance than before. Wendy nonsensically grinds into his hand between her legs, desperate to chase her orgasm, and he lets her. She's so caught up in it that she almost doesn't notice when he spanks her again, adding more fingers when he penetrates her a third time. She doesn't even care, at this point. She's a complete mess of sensation, with what he's doing to her.

"I...I need to come!" she cries out.

"Then do it," he chokes. "Come for me, Wendy. Show me how much you love this."

"I do," she whispers frantically, right as she crests the hill. Right as the electricity crackles behind her eyelids and her hips buck desperately.

"You what?" he presses, pausing just long enough to get her to start whining for it. "Tell me, Wendy. What?"

" _I love it!_ " she screams with more force than she was expecting, and, like that, she's gone. The orgasm damn near ruins her.

In the end, Cartman works her loose for over an hour. He has her on her hands and knees when he's ready, and Wendy isn't even afraid, despite knowing just how large his cock is going to be compared to his fingers. She just moves with his hands, letting herself be positioned. Letting him line himself up with her ass and pushing his way inside of her. It hurts, but more than anything it's a shock, drawing a noise of pain, wonder, and pleasure as he bottoms out inside of her. He doesn't rail her, like he can when he's up front, but he still winds up with her pulled flush to his front, his mouth to her neck, whispering a whole manner of sweet nothings as she feels his cock twitch inside of her. As she feels his cum slipping down her leg for the third time and swears this is as close as she'll ever get to Heaven.


End file.
